Your Love Is Breadfruit, Falling from the Sky by Christian Bell
He never mentioned his song “Breadfruit” fell from the sky, landed in his hand. The song climbed the charts: most downloaded, most played, most everything. People everywhere humming the lyrics, your love is breadfruit, falling from the sky, slicing me open, heart primed to fly. He never revealed one day he awoke to pouring rain, thought he heard someone strumming his guitar. He walked to his living room, walls of windows, the world outside wet green grass. Inside him, a feeling. Go outside, walk, over the hill, to open field. His first experience with such a feeling.
He moved through scrambled eggs and crisp smoky bacon. Next to him an open sketchpad for lyrics. Steady rain became sun and breeze. The feeling still there. He said, what now, echoing in the room. The feeling pushed him. So he went outside, across wet grass, water and pine scented breeze. Over the hill, into open field. He stopped, looked skyward, extended an open hand. How dumb, he thought, then suddenly, a falling object. A green sphere, surface like sandpaper, landed gently in his hand. Breadfruit—somehow, he knew, without ever seeing one before. He stood there, gazing first at the breadfruit then to the sky, fear moving to wonderment. He spoke: breadfruit, falling from the sky.
That happened six months before. Since then no more feelings. Some mornings, though, he awoke to phantom guitar strumming. Some mornings, he looked to the sky, thought, I’m wide open, I’m ready to catch what’s next.